Authors: Colleen Quinn
“I am going to prepare tea now. Would you care for some?”
“No.” Michael waited until the servant left, then stormed out of the room, looking for peace. The last thing he needed was any more guilt. Somehow, she’d managed to turn his household against him. His mother was obviously upset, Percy was furious, and even James was indignant. Only Robert hadn’t commented so far, but his brother had liked Rose from the first and was openly disappointed to hear that she had gone.
He couldn’t stand it. Determined to ignore the lot of them, he marched down to the old library in the rear of the house. There he would fetch a book and shut out all of them. Congratulating himself on his own cleverness, he started for the room when an adjacent door caught his attention.
It was his father’s office. Apparently, the maid had been cleaning and left the door ajar. Curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped inside and turned up the lamp, throwing a circle of light on the floor.
He hadn’t been in this room in ages. Glancing at the worn wallpaper, the physician’s coat hanging behind the door, the wooden floor that had been cleaned so often that the original finish had worn through, he marveled.
His mother must have done this, she must have carefully preserved the room just as his father had left it. Except for the cobwebs overhead, the books were strewn about, half opened, the stethescope was waiting nearby, the bright physician’s lamp was standing behind the patients’ table. There were jars of ointments, bandages for cuts, medicines for poor nutrition, and wooden tongue depressors. A physician’s book lay open beside him, and Michael thumbed through it, seeing the notes regarding Molly Kelly’s broken leg or Winifred Sweeney’s stomach complaint.
It was all here, as if his father would walk through that door at any moment, pick up his white coat with a grin, ruffle his hair, then see to the next patient. A chill went through Michael as he saw himself as a child, standing on an orange crate, watching as his father stitched up a gash that a youthful Irishman had obtained fighting, then sympathized with a woman and her baby.
He had forgotten so much. Reading more quickly now, he paused as he recognized a prominent society member’s name, then that of a poor immigrant. A rueful smile came to his face as he saw the payment terms: two pounds from Mrs. Whitman, three chickens from Mrs. Murphy. No wonder the man had been so poor!
No wonder he had also been loved.
A note fell out of the book, the writing poorly scrawled on cheap paper. The ink had been blotted several times, where the author, fighting to find the right words, had paused with the pen. Smoothing the paper, Michael read:
…want to thank you for saving the life of my girl, Beth. She would have died but for you. She had the fever for so many days, but your good medicine saved her. I will never forget the night you came. It was so cold in my house that I could see Beth’s breathing, but you kept on your coat and stayed, feeding her, caring for her. I will be forever in your debt.…
Debt. It was appropriate that the man had used a banking term. He winced. At twenty-one he’d thought he’d known everything, that his father had been a fool, that the man had no respect for the dollar. Now he realized the truth. In many ways his father had been a far more successful person than he’d ever been, and the wealth he’d accumulated could not be measured in dollars and cents.
Closing the book, Michael felt much the same way he’d felt as a child, when his father would give him one disapproving look that would freeze his heart. My God, how could he have forgotten? What had he been fighting all these years? This simple, uncomplicated man had lived and died by his principles, principles that had taken some courage to maintain.
For Michael had no doubt that his father had been tempted by the prospect of wealth. With his talent and knowledge it would have been easy for Dr. Wharton to charge full fees, treat only those who could pay for it, and be damned to the rest. Such an attitude would have won the applause of the financial community and the respect of Philadelphian society.
But he’d resisted all that, gave of himself, and won ridicule instead. He’d spent countless nights in this very office, helping the poor, the needy, the homeless immigrants. None came to Doc Wharton and left without hope. He bound their wounds, healed their ills, fed them, listened to them, laughed with them, dried their tears. He was with them when they were born and when they breathed their last breath. He saw past the ragged cap and homespun trousers to the man or woman or child beneath, saw them as worthy.
And he’d tried to teach that to his son. Picking up the stethescope, Michael watched it glint in the lamplight and fought the tears that sprang to his eyes.
…I am forever in your debt…
His own life seemed pale by comparison.
What had he really done but pile up money? Sure, he’d reestablished his family, but at what cost? He’d shut Rosemary out, denied himself his child, cut himself off from what he wanted the most. He’d built himself a fortress, and now all he had was his bankbook to show for it.
Michael replaced the medical instrument and sighed. It seemed he had a decision to make. He could live in this rich and overcrowded house, work each day and night in a job that had become meaningless, and come home tired to an empty bedroom, or he could change his life. But could he really give it all up? Could he turn his back on society, on wealth, on everything?
A wry smile came to his face. There was a time when he wouldn’t have even considered it, when he would have thought anyone else a fool who would have done so. But that was so long ago, before Rose Carney with her whimsical smile, her face smeared with paint, bringing joy and laughter to everyone she touched. He loved her, he realized with a stunning clarity. It was as simple and as complicated as that. He’d loved her from the moment she laid eyes on him, from the moment she defied him so openly, laughed at him, and loved him with breathless adoration.
It really was no decision at all. His finances were in order and no longer needed constant care. And his mother had developed her own life and no longer needed him for companionship. He could do it. His smile widened as he closed the door and started for the hall, ignoring his mother’s surprise as she came through the door. Laughing, he hugged her, planted a kiss on her cheek, then ran up the stairs while she stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. He knew what he had to do.
He was going to run away. To the circus.
“Let’s try it again,” Rosemary called to Rags while the clown-tramp drank from his flask, carefully recorked it, and then climbed back up on his mount in disgust. Griggs rolled his eyes, then indicated the horse. He was resting on a hay mound, still pale but better. The doctor had put him on a strict diet, and Rosemary had taken him off duty, giving him light work to perform so that he would feel involved and useful. It wouldn’t have worked except Carney was back, and they were all used to taking orders from her, like it or not. Griggs patted the ground beside him, and Rosemary plunked down next to the silent clown to watch.
Rags stood on top of the horse, obviously hating everything about the animal beneath him. “Damned mule! If the Lord meant for us to gallop, we’d have been born with four legs.”
“Quit griping. Now!”
The horse took off at Rags’s signal and cantered politely around the ring. “That’s good,” Rosemary coached, shifting painfully in the hay. “A little more to the right. You want to get good balance for the flip. Now speed her up a little.”
Groaning, Rags held on to the reins, his knuckles white, and he urged the mare on. “Can’t we just skip this part?”
“Every circus has a backflipman,” Rosemary pointed out. “Barnum’s got two. We have to have at least one until I can get back on my feet. Give it three rounds and then jump.”
Rags did as she suggested, still clenching the reins. The horse rounded the field once, twice, and at the third round slowed for the leap. Rags turned slightly, crouched, then tumbled to the ground.
“Damned nag!” He shook his fist at the horse, who galloped away happily. “I swear she does it on purpose!”
Laughing, Rosemary tried to look sympathetic while giggles welled up inside of her, threatening to spill forth. Rags saw her large body shaking and appeared indignant while Rosemary attempted to help him up.
“That’s enough for today. Really, you’re getting much better.”
Rags scowled, then gave her a worried smile, as she unconsciously held her swollen belly. She was wearing her clownsuit which, thankfully, was large enough to accommodate her pregnancy. Patting his shoulder reassuringly, Rosemary sauntered past him, past Zachery, who shared Rags’s concern, past Clara, who cackled and muttered beside a warm campfire, then Leonardo. She ventured to her own tent, shutting the cold out with the flap, then sat painfully on her cot.
It had been months since she left Philadelphia, but it seemed forever. The ache in her back matched that in her heart, and she massaged it, willing away the physical discomfort, but was unable to affect her loneliness. Staring into the mirror, she grimaced at the sight of her hair, loose and unruly, her face, pale and lifeless, her body, swollen with her child.
Had she done the right thing? The thought nagged at her, but even as she stared in the mirror, she knew she’d done the only thing, right or not. She couldn’t have stayed there, could never have been a part of that life.
Her eyes squeezed shut as she remembered Michael’s face across that room when her dress caught on fire. He’d never accepted her for what she really was, never could. He was so caught up in money, in accumulating wealth, in the right and proper way to do things, that she would always have been a disappointment to him.
Yet she missed him terribly, especially now. Pregnant with their child, she wanted him beside her, wanted to know that he cared about her, wanted the child, wanted…her. She needed him to touch her, to love her, to hold her, and to caress her. She thought of the last time she’d loved him, in his parlor, and she shivered as she pictured him once more, her prim and proper banker, loving her so uninhibitedly.
Smiling ruefully, she realized that that was all she had ever wanted. Yet, even as she smeared on makeup, preparing for the show, she knew she was wishing for the moon. Michael Wharton didn’t want to be married to a pregnant clown. Even now he was probably romancing Melissa Caldwalder.
The thought made her kick a crate. Wincing in pain, she grabbed her toe and danced, biting her lip…
“Was that me you were kicking?”
Rosemary turned, her breath caught in her throat. He was standing inside the tent flap, as he had in so many of her dreams, only this time he was real. This was no fictitious Michael, no figment of her imagination, but the flesh and blood man. Her heart pounded, and a huge clown smile creased her face. Forgetting her makeup, she rushed into his arms, tears flowing down her cheeks.
“Michael! Oh, my God, do I really have you back?”
He was kissing her, laughing with her, crying, her makeup smeared on his face. “Yes, Rose Carney, you do. And this time I’ll never let you go, never. I tried to live without you, tried to be content in my ordered life, but I can’t. I love you. I want you, I want this baby and ten more clowns just like her.”
Rosemary gasped, wiping at the paint on his face, the profile she thought of each night. Her hand dropped in disbelief. “Then, you mean—”
Michael nodded. “This is your home. You’ve told me that, and I’ve finally accepted it. But it seems I need a job.” He gave a look so full of love and happiness that Rosemary’s tears started again. “Do you think you can use a good accountant?”
“You mean the best.” Rosemary sighed, slipping her arms around him and pulling his mouth down to hers.
The kiss was frightening in its intensity. Both of them wanted the other so badly they could taste it, yet the baby was too close. Instead, Michael held her, touched her, kissed her with a passion that made Rose dizzy, while she opened herself up to him completely. With love. And trust.
He would be a part of her forever now. Somehow, it had happened, somehow, Rosemary had done it. He really loved her, would live with her here, at Carney’s. They would have children together and raise them the way children ought to be raised, in the circus tradition. The locket her mother had given her was warm beneath her dress, and she smiled as she thought of Sean Carney.
Somehow, she knew he would approve.
“
COME ONE, COME ALL
! See the lion tamer master the king of beasts! See the trapeze artists swing through the air! See the grandiose elephants, the uproarious clowns, the daring acrobats! Come to Carney’s!”
The line was ten deep at the big top. The scent of popcorn and peanuts filled the air, along with the smells of the animals, sawdust, and canvas. The calliope hooted, the band played, the cymbals clanged. Clowns rolled through the doorway, enticing the crowd with a bouquet of paper flowers or a ball attached to an elastic string that quickly returned to its clown owner.
Clara hovered over a crystal ball while Biddle’s voice boomed. Leonardo cracked his whip while Zachery led the elephants through their paces. Griggs sold the tickets while Rags leaned drunkenly against a tent pole, making the people laugh as he sobbed at the sight of his empty flask. Jake and the roustabouts carried the props inside, while the “Indians” rode about, whooping and shouting.